act more like a patrol
wagon!"

"What do you mean I can't be loyal?" Roy demanded, his eyes glistening.
"The fellows--"

"I don't care about the troop," Pee-wee interrupted. "I'm talking about
you and the fellow that saved your life." He paused in the road and
stood facing Roy; a funny little round-faced figure he was, with eyes
blazing. "You've got to say, is he a murderer or not? You've got to say
it. Yes or no? And these fellows--your own patrol--they can prove what
you say--"

Roy was almost sobbing. Pee-wee certainly held the floor--or the road.

"The men--Mr. Ferrett--they know better than we do, Kid. Blythe is the
one whose picture--"

"You say yes or no," Pee-wee demanded in a voice of thunder. "They
lifted him off where you were caught and so now you're alive and you can
_speak_. Is he a murderer or isn't he?"

Roy was going to pieces. The little scout whom he had always found it so
easy to jolly, towered over him. The tiny Raven was become a giant.
"I--no he--_no he isn't_--he isn't, Kid," Roy stammered.

Without another word Pee-wee hooked his duffel bag to the end of his
scout staff, after the fashion of a Swiss peasant, and carrying the
staff over his shoulder, marched on ahead like a conquering hero, as if
he preferred not to be seen hiking with such people....

CHAPTER XXVIII

HOME SWEET HOME

The sturdy little scout did not long walk alone. Roy, visibly affected,
limped ahead, rapped him on the shoulder without saying a word, and
hobbled along at his side. And presently Warde Hollister, quiet,
thoughtful, and always somewhat a puzzle to the other scouts, joined
them. "I'm with you, Kiddo," he said. Pee-wee did not appear to care who
was with him and who was not. His own stout little scout heart was with
him, and that was enough.

And so these three who had taken the hike to Woodcliff, and discovered
the tell-tale notice, and mailed the formidable envelope to somebody or
other, they knew not whom, trudged along together now, and the resolute,
loyal, unreasoning spirit of Pee-wee Harris was like a contagion, giving
the others hope where indeed there seemed no hope, and diffusing
something like cheer.

And noticing them, Westy said to Vic Norris of the Elks, "He's a funny
fellow, Warde; it always seems as if he thinks more than he speaks."

"He never speaks till he's sure," Vic said.

The late afternoon sun was glinting up the river and bathing the patched
roof of their old ramsh